White Noise
by Sulwyn of the North
Summary: Thoughts and feelings from Sirius and Regulus about why Sirius left and what they're going to do with their lives now. Some humor, some angst, and hopefully some romance later on. Enjoy! Adult themes, it'll get worse later on: drinking, some other stuff.
1. A Red Herring

Disclaimer: Check list: Millionaire: nope; amazing writer: unfortunately not; the owner and creator of all things Harry Potter: man, I wish. But no. Own nothing.

Author's Note: This is my first story (except for "There is Only Power", which is a very short one shot so it doesn't count) that isn't at least slightly AU. Admittedly, my AU character, Cambri, makes something of a cameo in here, but she is mentioned in name only. This is a Regulus story, told through his eyes, although much of the time he is talking about Sirius. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you like it. Please, please R/R if you've got the heart or the time. Loves-Sulwyn

I am not the sort of swashbuckling, sword-brandishing, damsel-rescuing hero you'll read about in stories. I don't even know what a swashbuckler is, although I do own a foil. It is the opinion of most that I am asexual, so rescuing damsels is out of the question. Must keep up images. (Note to self-discover what image is and determine whether or not it is acceptable.)

I am also not the drowning-in-grief, suffering-artist, disturbed-but-lovable hero. I'm too logical. I don't have anything to be grieved or disturbed over, unless you count my family, which I don't. So what kind of hero am I? I'm not. I'm not even an anti-hero, like the ones in Hawthorne or Poe or those pop novels that I refuse to read. Too much logic. Too much self-discipline. Too much intelligence to be a hero.

So I'm no the hero of this story, if I could be so bold as to call my life a story-there's really not much plot. But, story or no, I'm no hero. That would be my brother, Sirius.

He is the sword-brandishing, suffering-artist, hero/anti-hero all at the same time.

He is the outcast of the family, despised by some of the most powerful people of the wizarding world, but loved by just about everyone else he meets.

He is charming, graceful, and he draws with crayons on a regular basis. Good drawings, too. Oh, he is also an alcoholic, with helps with his Suffering-Artist look.

He stands up for what he thinks is right, always. He'll defend peoples' honor, even if they don't deserve it, and he stands strong in the face of adversity.

So, really, there's no room for me to be the hero. I'm not jealous; quite the opposite, actually. I've never wanted to be in the spotlight like him.

If I may, I will continue in this story metaphor. Our family, Lucius and Bella in particular, is the Antagonist. They are always testing the Hero, like they can't wait to see what he'll do next.

The Supporting Heroes are as follows: James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Cambri Terrangs, Kira Adelais, and, sometimes, James's parents, Cyril and Karenina Potter.

The Antagonists do not receive Supporting Villains. They are powerful enough that they don't need them. They support themselves.

Remus Lupin doubles as a Supporting Hero and a Character Foil for the Hero. Lucius is a Villain as well as a Foil, as is our mother and that weird psychiatrist they sent him to last year.

Our father is a Minor Villain, since he's rarely around, and Cambri is our Love Interest.

The teachers and Dumbledore are Watchers, Minor Characters, and Narrators, at least some them are sometimes.

I don't know where I fit in. I don't molest Sirius, so I can't be a Villain, but I'm certainly not his friend, so Supporting Hero is out of the question. I am neither around him often enough nor influential enough to be a Character Foil. And I am not complicated enough, at least not to him, to be a Plot Twist or a Conflict.

I am White Noise. A Red Herring. One of those characters who you think you have to keep an eye on but doesn't end of mattering much in the end. Or vice versa.

Either way, I was supposed to be creating an extended metaphor about my own life, and it has wound up revolving about Sirius. I am not surprised.

It seems ridiculous that I am White Noise in my own story of my own life. There's no way I'm giving this to the Therapist. He'll think that I have self-esteem issues, which I do. But it's his job to figure that out, so why ruin his fun by just telling him my problems?

Which I could do, by the way. I am slightly schizophrenic, have some mild OCD, and am paranoid on most bank holidays.

But, mostly, I just think too much. I blame my genes, but mostly I blame Sirius. (Could that be considered an issue? Maybe-must consult psychology textbook). I was born more or less brilliant, and, like many brilliant people, more or less emotionless. I have Sirius's delinquency to thank for my hostilities, phobias, sarcasm, and pessimism. Of course I would never tell the Hero this. It would damage his all-too-sensitive, all-too-inflated ego.

It is amazing how distant 'almost nothing' and 'nothing at all' are. I am Almost Nothing, and, though I expend all my energies on it, I cannot become Nothing At All. I cannot disappear into the crowd like I used to. Sirius's popularity has seen to that. Most people enjoy the residual effects of having a well-liked sibling or friend. I, on the other hand, am annoyed, especially since people have begun to see my silent, outcast attitude as attractive. I think puberty has something to do with this and I have nothing but antipathy for it.

The Therapist keeps telling me to express the pain he knows is buried within me somewhere. I want to know what the point of expressing buried pain is-if I wanted to express it, why would I have buried it? I don't say this, but I can tell he is annoyed with my silent reply to his comment-an upraised eyebrow.

He sighs and hands me a sheet of paper so I can draw for him. This is our usual routine. He makes truly laudable, yet vain attempts at conversation, and then, once it has failed, he gives me paper and some pens and I'm off, drawing flat, children's drawings of animals, usually of birds. There's no need to show him my potential in art and get his hopes for a breakthrough up, but somehow I think he can tell I'm something of an artist anyway.

I have a headache. I want to go home, or at least I want to go back to what's left of home. Father died just a few weeks ago, Sirius left just before his death, and Mother is rapidly losing her mind.

It seems strange that Sirius is gone. He has always been my shield, turning away most of the spotlight and most of the family's anger from me. He always protected me, even though he never realized it. But now, with both him and Father gone, and Mother going mad, I have to be the oldest son, the youngest son, and I have to manage the family's business. My life is, well, dreadful, at the moment.

And Sirius has no idea what he left me to. He cannot realize he was confining me to this life of endless responsibility and frustration. And yet that is exactly what he did. And he doesn't care. He is having the time of his teenaged life at school, while I've had to take time off of it because I have to take care of my family.

I'm really quite frustrated by his behavior.

I didn't want him to leave, although I'm sure he doesn't know it. I've never been good at expressing my emotions, especially not towards someone whom my family so reviled. But when I walked into Sirius's room and found him packing a few weeks ago, I realized that I didn't hate him, as the rest of my family did. In fact, I rather enjoyed his company. I stared at him for a good long moment, and then I left. I think my behavior puzzled him, but there's no way for me to tell him how I feel.

He left me, anyway. Left his whole family behind with not a second glance or regret. I can't blame him, really. They treated him horribly; he has all sorts of scars from them, not the least of which is the Black family crest branded on his back. I probably would have left myself, had I been in his place and had I been the emotional type.

But none of this speculation matters. I am on my own, and I will adjust and move on. This has the opportunity to make me strong, and I will emerge from this current situation smarter and better than I was upon entering.

Still, I do miss him. And still, I wish I knew why . . . I wasn't good enough for him to stay.

A/N: So, what'd you think? I'm preparing myself to write a follow up chapter told in Sirius's point of view, but we'll see how everything goes. Please R/R, it would be much appreciated! Thanks much!


	2. Sneak in the Window ONE time

Disclaimer: Well, just looking around at my room just now, I'd have to say that its certainly isn't the bedroom of a multi-millionaire who writes best selling children's novels. Darn it.

A/N: Wow, people, 45 hits on this story! I'm excited. And I'd really like to thank my **lone** reviewer, Sweet 16 Movie Buff. I'm so happy you've reviewed. As for the rest of you 44 slackers . . . well, let's just say that I am most displeased. Also, I am very, very thankful to Phinea and Zevazo for helping me with this chapter. I was stuck in a rut and she pulled be out of it (mostly by writing some of this). Check out their stories-all the cool people are doing it. So, yeah. Sirius POV. Enjoy!

When I was twelve, I read Gone with the Wind, and hated it. I read it mostly because my mother wrote it off as "American trash", so obviously it had to be a book I'd love.

It wasn't.

Admittedly, my mother was wrong; it wasn't trash, but it was incredible writing. However, it made me realize just how much I hated the ruling class of any given society, whether it be pre-Civil War America or 1970s wizarding world Britain. Their rules, their traditions are so pointless and ridiculous that, even when I was still vying for my mother's affection, I still realized how ridiculous they were. The subtleties and little nuances are so damn annoying to memorize and follow that by the time I was about sixteen I'd decided that I'd had enough and left. Of course, there was more to it than that. That's how it started, really, with my hatred of all their little rules. From then on, my life was little more than degeneration into abuse and depression. Blaming that on my family's rules does sound a little severe, I know, and it's only partially true. The tradition of the "rites of passage" of the firstborn son, combined with the punishments I managed to earn and the cruelty of my family all sort of melted together and produced a life not even fit for an animal. I do not like to go into details, but I'm afraid they make crop up here and there on occasion. But it doesn't matter, now, what happened. I don't like to dwell on it. Except sometimes the past just won't leave you alone . . .

On the upside, I am drinking some really excellent bourbon tonight. Mark, the night manager of the Hog's Head, is squeezing six Knuts extra per glass out of me for this stuff, says it's a very special vintage, and let me tell you, it is worth twelve. It has a fierce and yet gentle burn in my throat and all the way down, creating a numbing warmth in my stomach. And the taste is phenomenal.

I'm drunk now, just drunk enough. A woman in light grey, gown-like robes is looking at me. Her long, vividly blonde hair is swept up, pinned and graceful like her robes. She has on silver-grey heels. Maybe she came from a friend's wedding, or something. In any case, she's alone. She's looking at me. I catch her eye in return and hold her gaze. Lovely dark eyes, very large, but with an almost Asian look to them.

I need solitude to GET drunk, but I can BE drunk in company with perfect grace. And her company sounds like a lovely place to be, drunk or sober.

I can hear Remus's voice as though he's saying the words quietly into my ear. "Another old pedophile lady, Sirius?" He'll say something of the sort later. He always says "lady," like he's waiting for me to contradict him, and I almost want to hit him. Except that I never could hit Remus. No matter how I want to drown him on occasion, to actually strike him would be totally beyond me.

Those first two glasses had his name on them, for what he said earlier (as though he doesn't always say it, for my own good, always for my own good). "I'm going out," I said.

"To get drunk," he said resignedly.

I grinned. Devil-may-care grin, half-cultivated, much-practiced. I have a smile for every situation, from "I-love-you" to "I'm-putting-up-with-you" to "I'm-about-to-bite-your-testicles-off." They occur naturally the first time, but I try to remember them once they do, for later use. "Yeah, to get drunk, what are you, new?"

"Get drunk, get laid, the great Sirius Black rides again, all in a Friday night's work, m'lady," he said, sarcastic. Sarcasm is the weapon for Remus, and he uses it so very well. If sarcasm were a sword, my little fencing-champion brother would envy Remus's point-work.

"Yeah," I said. "Basically."

"How many years older this time?" Remus asked me.

I shrugged, stung by the inference: if my partners are child-molesters, then I'm a child. Usually they don't realize how young I am; I pass for eighteen or even twenty in dim light. "They're not exactly cradle-robbers, Remus.

"No, you're just a nursing-home-robber," Remus said sweetly.

I was smart enough to shut up. It's third quarter, Remus's temper is nasty beyond belief for about twelve hours at this phase of the moon, and it coincides with the point at which he's a hell of a lot stronger than me. If I start with him, we'll both regret it. Remus will regret it more, once he's back to his normal good-natured and pacifistic self.

This is the downside to being Remus's best friend; he relaxes around me, which is great, but it also lets me see his bad traits more than most.

As I pulled on my jacket (three hundred and fifty bucks worth of black leather, baby, and I lifted the thing without paying a penny), Remus said my name, softly. I looked up. "Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he said.

And that's the worst part; he's usually so even and calm and kind, but even when he's apparently looking to get himself beat up or killed, he'll lapse back into himself again for these odd moments. He looked terribly vulnerable at that moment. I was almost tempted to take him with me, just so he'd see I'm not doing anything dangerous and quit worrying. I reminded myself that I'd wanted to butcher him a moment ago, and walked out. "I'll see you later," I called just before the door shut.

I drain my glass, relishing the glow as the last drops slide into my throat, and rise to go talk to the nicely dressed blonde.

I pause outside my dormitory, really not wanting to go in. Even though it's nearly three in the morning, I know Remus will be up, waiting for me. He'll be sitting on his bed, or mine, reading some book (Alcoholic Teens, Their Issues, and How to Help Them, probably, or some other such nonsense), and occasionally eating some of the chocolate I'm sure he has stashed away somewhere but can never find. Or, actually, maybe he won't be. It is third quarter, after all, and he's generally restless during that stage of the moon. Well, restless and a lot of other things I'm not allowed to say around James's parents. What he'll probably be doing at this stage of the moon is pacing around the dormitory, glancing up often at the door and windows, the latter of which he has probably locked. (You sneak in the window one time, and they just can't let it go.)

Finally I sigh and walk in. Maybe walk isn't the right word. I'm a little too drunk to be walking. But not staggering, either. Somewhere in between.

Remus pauses, mid-pace, and glares at me. "Sirius-" he begins.

"Remus, can't this wait till morning?" I say, well-aware and unashamed that I am pleading. I hate being so relaxed and then coming back to this. He's like the nagging wife I swear I will never have. "You're just going to say the same stuff you've been saying for years."

He closes his mouth with a snap and continues to glare at me before saying, "Yes, I am, and I'm hoping that one of these times it's going to sink into that thick skull of yours."

"All right," I say, sitting down on my bed, and arranging the pillows so I'm comfortable. "I'm ready; let's get this over with."

He pauses a moment, then lets his breath out in a sigh. "Never mind," he says tiredly. He points at my bedside table. "Your brother brought you a letter. I think your mother sent it." He goes to his own bed and lies down.

I shrug. I'm not worried or relieved at being spared the lecture. He'll work himself up by tomorrow morning and I'll catch it then.

I reach over and pick up the letter, holding it with both hands, and really, really, really not wanting to open it. If it is from my mother (and I think that it is, that's her handwriting), then I know exactly what it's going to say.

I know this because it's the same thing she's written since about second year.

'You're a disgrace,' 'you've shamed the entire family,' 'I hope you suffer a debilitating brain aneurism, you crusty waste of pure-blooded vital organs,' et cetera, et cetera.

So I get up, go down into the common room, and toss her letter into the dying fire, where it screams bloody murder before finally giving way to ashes and smoke.

Feeling complacent and a little triumphant, I go back up to bed and sleep through most of breakfast.

A/N: R/R, if you please. And I already have part of Chap. 3 written, so hopefully (and also remembering the fact that school starts tomorrow sob) I'll have that up soon.


	3. One of those Stupid Things

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Love it deeply and religiously, but own nothing.

A/N: Hmmm, well, here's another chapter. Obviously it's not in first person this time; I can never keep that up for long. . . Umm, let's see. Thanks to all my great reviewers-I think I have, like 7 now. Oh, by the way, if you're wondering where Peter is in this story, the answer is: he's not here. I don't like him, I suck at writing his character, so he's no here. If you really need to know where he went, ummm . .. He's on vacation in, like Aruba. Or Manchuria. And he's not coming back for a long, long time.

Regulus took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, trying not to let it sound like a long-suffering sigh. He failed miserably.

Sirius was walking behind him, with his miserable little friends, making snide comments. Loudly. About everything ranging from Regulus's mother to his supposed impotence.

Regulus really did not want to reply and turn this into an all out war. He knew exactly what Sirius was doing (as though he didn't always do it, jealous and angry as he was), and there were enough people watching this spectacle already without Regulus's input.

He had hoped that, after Sirius had left home, that Sirius would leave him alone at school, or at least have the decency to ignore him after leaving him so abruptly. But Sirius, as Regulus was constantly reminding himself, did not have as many positive attributes as Sirius himself claimed to have. He did not have any decency or, as far as Regulus could tell, compassion for his enemies. Regulus was just the teensiest bit annoyed. Maybe a little more than a teensy bit. Maybe a lot. Maybe he was really, really angry and maybe that smug bastard behind him deserved every bit of abuse he had ever gotten or was ever likely to get in the future.

In any case, Regulus was making a monumental effort not to turn around and hex the hell out of his brother and his scruffy little friends. (Although, only one of his scruffy friends was actually scruffy, at least by Regulus's family's traditional definition of the word; Potter was pureblood, albeit one-half Russian, but Lupin was half and half.) If Regulus were to curse them all, there wasn't a judge alive that could convict him. But Regulus had always prided himself on his self-control. He was always in complete command of his emotions and actions. For this reason, he never drank, or did anything outside of moderation. He also, unlike his brother, didn't do stupid things. He couldn't bring himself to, even if doing something stupid, like begging for mercy, or some other such weakness, might save him a lot of pain.

Regulus realized, suddenly, that his brother and his friends (or, to be fair, his friend; only Potter was joining in with the hilarity) were being awfully quiet. Regulus tilted his head to listen. Yes, they were still behind him, whispering. He tensed and listened more closely.

"-and just relax, Moony. It's not a big deal, and you know it." This was Sirius.

"Mangy mutt," Remus growled. "It is a big deal, you're acting like a complete and utter-"

"Come on," James interrupted. "It's just a little payback."

"And what'd he ever do to you?" Remus wanted to know, apparently speaking to James.

Sirius, however, was the one who answered. "He was part of my family?"

Regulus smiled. So Lupin was defending him. Regulus knew he liked him for some reason.

Remus was exasperated. "But what specifically?" he asked.

"Hated me with the rest of them," Sirius said.

At this Regulus paused. He had never hated Sirius. Never. He didn't hate anyone; he wasn't capable of it. But even if he was, it wouldn't be Sirius he would hate.

"And what did he do to demonstrate that?" Remus asked. He seemed to know Sirius vastly better than Sirius knew himself.

Regulus turned around, wincing internally as he did. This was one of those stupid things he never did. "Yeah, Sirius, what?" he asked. He hadn't meant to sound so defensive. He really wanted to know.

Sirius stopped walking and looked at his brother with something resembling hatred. He didn't speak, as Regulus hoped that he would, but only turned away, leading James off to some corner to discuss what prank they were going to pull on him next. Remus stayed a moment. He saw as Regulus turned away, obviously with effort, and walk towards the dungeons as the crowds dispersed off to classes.

And Remus's keen ears could hear Regulus, nearly at his classroom door, whisper, "Sirius," before he, too, had disappeared, and Remus was left in an empty hallway, with the portraits staring at him, and another prefect heading towards him. Remus took off after his friends.

Regulus suffered through class, not listening much to Professor Binns's lecture. But, then, that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was his brother-no not his brother anymore, Regulus reminded himself. Sirius had run away. Sirius had been disowned. Sirius was now living either with James or on the streets with some gang or other during the holidays. Not his brother. Never really had been. And . . . wouldn't be.

Regulus lay his head down on his desk. He felt very young suddenly. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, and he didn't know quite what to do. He should just forget Sirius. This whole situation was entirely too sentimental to him. Sirius had never really wanted him anyway, so why was he grieving the loss of a brother who hadn't been around, and who didn't even like him. Yet, he had said, that night so long ago . . .

_"Reggie?" _ That was Sirius's pet name for him. No one else called him that. Or Sirius would call him 'kid.' _"Reggie, are you okay?"_

_Regulus had given him a strange, perhaps even scornful look. Sirius was standing in his doorway, leaning against the expensive mahogany doorframe, with both hands shoved inside his pockets. That pose, Regulus had learned throughout the years, meant Sirius was feeling insecure. He'd answered after a brief, deliberately awkward pause. "Yeah. Why?" He put his leather book away in its drawer and locked it. _

_"I . . . just wondering," Sirius had said gruffly, looking at the floor. "It's sort of . . . rough here . . . isn't it? I mean . . ." Sirius was having trouble with words, unusual for him._

_Regulus had raised an eyebrow. "'Here'?" he had asked. "What do you mean?"  
_

_"Here," Sirius had repeated himself. "Y'know. At home. With mother and Lucius and." The words had been faltering, each one almost a separate sentence._

_Regulus shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. He'd never had as much trouble with the 'character building' as Sirius had had. _

_"Because, if you need me, I won't leave you," Sirius had told him. "I won't." These words were clear, and it had seemed to Regulus as though this was really what Sirius had wanted to say the whole time. What he had been leading up to with every faltering comment. _

_Because of this, because of the comment's nature, and because Sirius had never seemed to show much interest in Regulus before, Regulus felt as though he'd been given a gift. "Thank you," he'd said. He felt like he should thank him. He was grateful towards Sirius, after all. But from the look Sirius was giving him, Regulus felt as though he'd failed some sort of test. _

The memory stopped there, as Professor Binns dismissed the class. Regulus glanced down and, with surprise, realized that his notes were blank. He always took notes, even when, for the most part, he wasn't paying attention.

Regulus just shook it off and shoved his things into his book bag. He'd read the chapter later. Odds were, he already knew it. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and headed to lunch.


End file.
